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Wednesday, March 6, 2013

Vital Warnings, Not That I've Ever Done This . . .

Recently I’ve shared various resolutions people should make this year so as not to annoy me. Conversely, I’m now warning others about things they should NOT do this year. I’m a giver that way.

To maintain the high level of scientific accuracy that my readers expect, this list is based on personal experience and meticulous testimony of people I found on the internet.

Do not mosey barefoot through a cow pasture in your underwear after ingesting Benadryl and several Solo cups of "fruit punch" at a bonfire (....it’s complicated).

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When the head of the school talent show phones you at the last minute to state that your daughter can’t be in the show because the song she’s practiced dancing to for three months is “inappropriate,” don’t scream at her until blood pools in your eyeballs. First determine whether she’s the sweet school chaplain who, furthermore, is about to birth a baby any minute.

Do not be a nimrod and go to the Ladies’ Room with your cell phone in your pocket. Even if you have to put it on the floor. At Chuck E. Cheese.

If you are a man over forty, there is no justifiable reason to wear Vans.

Do not assume a male is listening to a female just because he is looking her in the eye. He is thinking about her anatomy, caulk, or her anatomy.

Do not assume a teenager is listening to an adult just because he is looking the adult in the eye. The teen is merely planning a diversion to facilitate the quickest escape possible. Ideally, with explosives.

Do not give in to the temptation to sing karaoke in a bar if you look around and think to yourself how unbelievably “hot” everyone is.

After eating raw oysters at Daryl’s Television Repair & Crab Shack, do not go deep-sea fishing for a day—or four.

In school assembly when they announce your seven-year-old son won the city chess championship, don’t pump your fist and scream, “BOOYAH! ‘Yo Face!!!!” at the Poindexter who coaches the school chess team and who asked your son to resign because he’s “academically not ready” for chess.

Do not disclose on a first date that you are a “Trekkie” and that the Klingon Carpaccio at Starfleet conventions has really gone downhill since Gene Roddenberry died.

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Do not warn your two-year-old NOT to eat a candy cane off Target’s bathroom floor. Or your ten-year-old NOT to put his hand through a chain link fence. Or your sixteen-year-old NOT to date the Goth loser driving the van with curtains on the windows.

On a school field trip, do not tell your group of kids, “Gee, our house has NEVER been rolled!”

My goal is to make my readers’ lives easier and to help them avoid stumbling into pits of social quicksand which can result in them being called hurtful names, like “head case” and “nutjob” by the pretentious PTA moms who wag their heads at you and who no longer include you in their weekly, freaking Starbucks group (. . . . it’s complicated).

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About Me

I write a humor column about my three teenagers who keep me on the edge of insanity. I am very proud that I have achieved the pinnacle of mediocrity of motherhood. Since I am a writer, I LIVE for comments, otherwise I could never stand under the monotonous pressure of wearing sweatpants and only seeing daylight when I go to the mailbox occasionally. YOU are the ones that keep me from overdosing on Fritos.
So on the serious side, I've written for a couple of magazines and for the big Memphis newspaper. I write a weekly humor column for a suburban paper and a monthly column for another suburban paper.
I'm a writer for HumorOutcasts.com and a contributor for Blogher.com, HaHasForHoohas.com, Aiminglow.com, TheLastGoddess.com, and TopMommyBlogs.com. I haven't made it to the Huffington Post yet, but I'm waiting. And I really like wine.